Page 22 of Shades of Red

Chef Matis takes one look at her bowl. “Fucking. Mush.” Without tasting her dish, Chef turns his attention to the entire kitchen. “Nine, you won this one. Now everybody get the hell out of my kitchen and spend the night remembering what it’s like for food toactuallyhave texture. Dismissed.”

Aurélie doesn’t move as everyone bustles around gathering their things. She stands ramrod straight at the front of the kitchen, her untouched dish still on the table in front of her. I can’t be certain if she’s been stunned by Chef’s standard brutality, or if she’s scared of facing the consequences of my win. I linger until the last of the stragglers make it out of the room before walking up to her. Since the room is empty apart from the two of us, I’m brave enough to run my fingers over the small of her back before wrapping my arm around her waist and pulling her against my front.

“Are you okay?” I ask in concern when Aurélie doesn’t melt into my touch like I expect. I reach for her chin and tug her face to the side to look at me. Her cornflower eyes are glossy, and there’s a sick part of my head that likes the sight of her unshed tears.

“Please don’t look at me,” she pleads, trying to free herself from my grasp. “I’m not supposed to cry.”

Her struggle merely makes me hold onto her tighter. “Who the fuck told you that?” I ask, about ready to murder whatever cunt told her she should hide her tears. “I love your tears. They make me fucking hard.”

She laughs, the sweet sound of it like music in the silent kitchen. “Of course you do,espèce d’idiot. Hasn’t anyone ever told you that it’s perverse to get turned on by tears and blood?”

I scoff before flipping her around to face me and slowly forcing her back until her ass collides with Chef Matis’ judging station at the front of the kitchen. She screeches when I grab her by the hips and hoist her up onto the table, careful not to disturb her untouched bowl of ratatouille. I bring my palms up to either side of her face, cradling her delicate bones in my strong hands. She looks so small in my grasp, so breakable. Maybe that’s why it’s the first time I find myself longing to mend someone after I’ve wrecked them.

“There’s nothing perverse about it at all,” I defend. “Blood and tears are a delicious combination. Anyone who says otherwise simply hasn’t tried it yet.” I stroke my thumb over her bottom lip and unlatch it from the grasp of her teeth. “Break this lip with your damn fretful teeth, and I’ll be tempted to lick every inch of you while I fuck you on this table.”

Her eyes flutter briefly as her breath hitches. There’s a moment of charged silence. Then she smiles at me like that isexactlywhat she wants to happen. And she bites down on her bottom lip. Hard.

I rile at her recklessness, my fingers instinctively digging into the hollows of her cheeks. “You dirty girl,” I scold. “So keen to get fucked in the middle of this kitchen where anyone could see?” The look in her eyes is anything but a plea to stop, so I keep going. “You want me to strip you down and lay you out on this table like a ten course feast?” I rip open the front of her white uniform, sending buttons scattering over the floor. The front of her strappy red dress barely covers her tits,and my empty threats are going to turn into real ones very quickly.

“Fuck,golden girl. Did you wear this just for me?” She nods, her teeth still nibbling on her bottom lip. “Say it out loud, Aurélie. Tell me what a desperate slut you are for me.”

“I wore red for you,” she whispers, her periwinkle eyes fixed on mine. “When I put my dress on this morning, I imagined what it would feel like when you ripped it off me. And I hoped—” she pauses as she deliberates whether to reveal more details from her morning fantasy, “I hoped you might hurt me a little too.”

Holy fuck. She’s goddamn perfect for me. “We’re leaving,” I growl, grabbing her wrist and jerking her off the table and onto unsteady feet.

“Why?” Her bright eyes are wide with concern.

“Because the disgusting things I want to do to you right now would get me arrested if someone were to catch us.” I start to drag her toward the kitchen doors. “I’m taking you home where you belong.”

Now she looks panicked, all her previous bravery draining from her face. Her heels start to drag against the marble as she pulls against my hold on her arm. “Stop. Wait?—”

“No,” I interrupt, cutting off whatever excuses she was about to offer. “I won. And I’m taking you home. You can go willingly, or I can throw you over my shoulder and let your fighting and screaming get my cock even harder than it is right now. What’s it going to be?” She remains silent, refusing to choose either fate. I reach for her waist with the full intent of following through on my threat of kidnapping.

“Fine,” she shrieks, putting her arms out in front of her like that will save her if I wanted to take her. Which it won’t. “I’ll go home with you. No need to start acting like a wild animal.”

A wicked smile paints my lips as I stare down at her. She’s got no fucking idea of what she’s in for. “Glad you’re being sensible.” I take her hand in mine and walk toward the exit.

“At leastoneof us should be,” she mutters, even as she interlocksher fingers with mine.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be sure to fuck the sense right out of you.”

Before we make it out of the kitchen, something small and brown scurries across the marble floor in front of us and darts into the food pantry. Aurélie screams and clutches onto me even tighter. It’s her first scream of the night, and I’m pissed it doesn’t belong to me.

“Jesus Christ,” I swear, looking in the direction of where the little creature bolted. “Was that a fuckingrat?”

My apartment is small,even by Paris standards. Living in the center of Paris has its drawbacks, but the location and the view of the city lights from my Juliet balcony is not one of them. On the weekends, I like to open the full length windows to let in the fresh morning air and watch the sun rise while enjoying a café crème or two before walking a couple minutes to Le Fournil to get my usual croissant aux amandes.It may be small, but this apartment is the first slice of heaven I’ve ever known.

In the kitchen, there’s a small gas stove that works pretty well, an oven with a grossly inaccurate temperature dial, and a fully stocked fridge and liquor cabinet. In spite of my meager state of living, I’m not destitute, and I do not skimp on quality ingredients or good bourbon. There’s hardly any counter space, so I bought a kitchen cart that serves as an island and takes up most of the room in the kitchen. It’s a tight squeeze when it’s just me cooking, so it will be more than cozy with the two of us.

“What do you think?” I ask as Aurélie surveys the space with an upturned nose and a furrow of distaste between her brows. “Is it everything you imagined of mysweet little hovel?”

To make the best use of space and money, I opted for a record player I found at a local friperie rather than a flat screen. I put on oneof my old Edith Piaf records and lean against the kitchen counter.

“It’s small.” She makes herself at home in my kitchen, unavoidably brushing against me as she starts testing out the equipment and looking in the cabinets and fridge. “But the stove works, the water in the sink comes out hot, and the fridge is full. I’ve lived in worse.”

I scoff as I look over at her tailored red dress and her designer shoes. “Not recently, I’d imagine,” I retort, unable to keep a pinch of bitterness from my tone.

“No, not recently,” she agrees, self-consciously rubbing her hands over the material of her dress.

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